


Washed Away

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Challenge: mmom: Drama/Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim remembers the biggest mistake of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Washed Away

okay, this is for Ann. I think this hits the shower, masturbation and angst buttons. 

Disclaimer: Not mine. Petfly owns. For fun. Don't sue. Thank you. 

M/M-ish, NC-17, Jim's POV, archive okay. (are mental pictures) //are thoughts// NOT a death story but is a non-relationship story. Let me know what you think. All typos my fault. Tense shifts are intentional. Enjoy. 

## Washed Away

by AntyEnteT  


Jim stood under the pulsating showerhead, the thousands of steaming hot droplets massaging his tense neck and shoulders, //Finally! A hot shower that lasts for more than three minutes.// 

The water may as well have turned as ice cold as his usual showers. The thought came unbidden and unwanted, piercing his heart and mind as cruelly, coldly, sharply as a .40 caliber round of Winchester Talon and leaving behind just as large and unfillable of a hole. A hole that Blair Sandburg had once occupied, had, in fact, carved out for himself over the two years he and Jim had been acquainted. Oh, have mercy, how that emptiness ached! 

It was this very shower, this soothing hot water that he could no longer truly enjoy, that had triggered the anthropologist's desertion...or escape as the younger man may have seen it. 

The memory would not be denied, it would play itself out one more agonizing time. Jim closed his misery darkened blue eyes and surrendered himself completely to the nightmare....   
  


* * *

  


It had been a long week, one seemless eternal blur of humid, mildew-scented nights and overcast, garbage-sifting days. He and Sandburg had spent the time disguised as street people, a total immersion stakeout in order to catch the maniac who was "putting the Unclean and Downtrodden out of their misery." Tonight had been the night. The "Fire of God", as Lane Pruett called himself, was safely locked up, the street people once again having nothing to fear except starvation and exposure. 

All either man wanted was a hot shower involving lots of soap and then his own bed. They had taken their shoes off outside and dropped the outer layers of foul costume in a pile beside them. The door to the loft opened before the patrol car that had brought them home had gotten to the traffic light a block away. Even in their weariness, they moved swiftly with their desire for cleanliness. Blair got to the bathroom door first, his hand grasping the knob to turn it, undershirt dangling limply from his other hand. 

Jim reached out, caught the younger man's shoulder and turned him around, "Uh-unh, Chief, I get to shower first for a change." His hand lingered, both too tired to notice. 

"Hey, man, I *got* here first," Blair pouted. He looked up into Jim's eyes, challenging. 

Eyes locked, the moment stretched until something clicked in Ellison's mind: a desire for something he was sure he had never, until just then, wanted. He wanted to see his young Guide naked, wet, pressed close to his own body. The soft curls, made darker brown by water, of that slight torso against his own broad, hairless chest. As he thought this, his hand traced a light path from Sandburg's collarbone to sternum, fingers entwining themselves of their own volition in the subject of his musing. 

"Why don't we just share?" he whispered huskily, his penis already straining to be set free. 

Blair's right eyebrow shot up. He laughed nervously, "Man, what you won't do to get in there first...." 

"I'm not joking, Blair." Jim's hand continued its downward journey. 

"Yeah. Right. Okay, Jim, you win. Shower's all yours." Blair backed away quickly, retreated into his room and locked the door. 

Jim knew he had made the biggest mistake of his life and there was no way to fix it. He showered alone, the horror of what he'd just done, the degree of damage, beginning to sink in. 

The next morning, all trace of Blair Sandburg was gone from the loft as though he had never been there at all.   
  


* * *

  


Jim turned slightly to the left, letting the constant stream of liquid heat work on a different spot for a bit. He kept the pain of loss and humiliation as a tight fist in his chest, holding onto it with masochistic ferocity. Then, he let it seep outwards, knowing that, with the next shower, it would return just as strongly. As he released his anguish, his shame, his self-hatred, he let his thoughts drift to what *should* have been. 

In his mind's eye, he saw a tanned, long fingered hand reaching up to touch his cheek, glide over the five o'clock shadow; the tip of a pointed pink tongue dart out to moisten full, luscious lips; beautiful blue eyes like two small clear cerulean skies brought down from the heavens to shine up at him with reciprocal desire. Jim's large. lightly callused right hand began to stroke the sensitive flesh of his balls, swollen in preparation of the inevitable conclusion to his mental scenario. 

(A light touch, tentative, from a hand not his own raises goosebumps along his arms as it gently rubs. The touch gets more confident, aggressive, pinching slightly, kneading his testicles.) 

He's careful not to touch his rampant cock. Not yet. His left hand took its place upon his chest, manipulated the hardening nub beneath it. 

(Perfect white teeth nip, roll, his left nipple between them.) 

His hand moved to the other nipple to give it the same treatment as its opposite. 

(The scent of herbal shampoo tickles his nose as damp curls snake across his muscular chest.) 

And now. Now. 

(One finger trails along the length of his engorged shaft, swirls the tiny pearls of pre-cum to cover the needy head. Two fingers descend to the base. Three fingers curve to half encircle, ascend. The last finger and thumb join the progression, close the circle and begin a languid journey the the pubic bone.) 

Each movement of his own hands imagined as actions of his absent, lost, Guide. Excruciating slowness formed the exquisite torture that he had chosen for himself. He had conceded to himself that it was a minor punishment, this prolonging of pain and pleasure, too minor for his transgression...but it was all there was. Pain and pleasure so close, inseparable. 

"Ah, Blair...." The hand on his cock stilled its tormenting passage to allow the pad of the index finger to flick and skim along the weeping cap's ridge. 

(Warm, moist tongue: teasing, lapping.) 

He felt himself getting closer, the physical pain of denied release almost intoxicating in its unbearableness. Sweat mixed with pre-ejaculate slicked the inside of his caressing hand, sliding up and down with varying applied pressure. 

(Hot mouth engulfing him, driving him to the cliff's edge.) 

One last hard clench and pull. Jim came explosively, a loud sob simultaneously wracking his rapidly weakening body, "BLAIR!" 

Detective James Ellison, Guideless Sentinel, leaned heavily against the tiled wall while increasingly chill water washed away his semen and his tears for another day.   
  


* * *

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